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by elegant.quill1
Summary: "He'd left her. The one person who understood. Even if it was a simple nod in her direction, like it was most days. She always knew, even if the expression never changed." Set during 3x10 with reflections on various Caryl scenes. Minor spoilers for season two and on.


**A/N: Minor Season 2 spoilers. Ye be warned. In addition, rated T for some minor language, and references to past abuse, etc. Just didn't feel right to leave it at K+. Lastly, I own nothing but the words I write. I'm okay with this, and hopefully you are too. Thanks for reading, chaps!**

* * *

He never thought he belonged with them. With her. But after a few hours of reuniting with Merle, traveling with him, it became increasingly clear he didn't belong with him, either.

Before the prison, before Merle's miraculous reappearance, he'd believed the group was broken, dysfunctional. Carried enough deceit to last a lifetime. And while Shane's death was justified – even necessary, in Daryl's opinion – it stirred the fire even more. And people wondered why he was always alone on that farm, why he never "joined" camp. Rick did the right thing, but he was still crucified for it. For months, tried and judged for a crime he didn't commit. Daryl wasn't stupid; he knew Shane was setting the stage that night. Not a bad plan, but as usual, the man's execution was terrible. Too impulsive, too headstrong. And it led him to his grave.

He'd never understood the man, never much cared to. Never intended to take his spot, either. At the end of the world, the last thing Daryl Dixon needed was to get caught up in platitudes, in name games.

He was better off alone.

On the farm, he'd considered it a handful of times. Leaving. Rick practically gave him permission on more than one occasion, but he'd never left. If asked, he would deny it was out of any sort of affection or obligation. Herschel's farm was isolated, protected. He was just biding his time before he disappeared. His plans had been cancelled.

That was all.

And now that his long-lost brother had reappeared, he moved forward with his original plan. It was only natural, regardless of what happened in those eight months in between. They trusted each other, always had each other's backs. Fighters – always had been. No obligations, no caring for the weak or less fortunate. It was survival of the fittest, and they were born and bred for an environment such as this. Sure, they had their share of scars, but the permanent tears and breaks only solidified the notion: they were made for this. They didn't rely on anyone else; they only needed each other. Brothers, bonded in blood.

Then why did he question it so much?

He allowed his mind to wander, thoughts circling around the one member of Rick's group who had gotten under his skin. Breached his well-maintained barriers, the armored walls that served him so well for so long. Those same barriers that led him to his current state: following in his brother's footsteps without remorse, without question.

All she did was muck things up, make him question everything. After his brother was presumed dead, the idea of him abandoned after that deserted rooftop, Daryl put everything he had into fighting. Survival. It was all he had left: the legacy his brother left behind. He followed in his footsteps, chasing a ghost that was.

And then Sophia disappeared, and he found the perfect opportunity to redeem himself. To be useful.

"_I'll find her." His voice holds as much conviction as he can muster. Not just for himself, but for her as well. She needs to believe it too. She has to._

_She stares at those precious roses, as if debating his words. He'd be lying if he said he understood women, understood their thoughts or emotions, but even he can tell a million things are running through her head._

_Probably wondering whether his words are true, given his outburst in the stable._

_He glances at her then, courage draining in waves. He isn't one for words, let alone apologies. Setting things right is not exactly one of his strong suits. But one look at the broken woman standing next to him and he knows: he needs to make this right. Hell, she told him she couldn't lose him. Something undoubtedly difficult to say, even moreso since she knows him, knows he regards everyone with an air of nonchalance. _

_Knows he doesn't care – or pretends not to. _

_His gaze falters repeatedly, alternating between the roses and her. He's never thought of himself as a coward, but standing here, looking at this woman, apologizin' and such – well, it's the closest he's ever come to admitting..._

_"Hey." His voice is tentative, soft. Foreign to his own ears. "I'm sorry about what happened this morning."_

"_You wanted to look for her." Her words speak understanding, and he can't help the rush of surprise that overtakes his system. She forgives him, just like that. Likely forgave him hours ago. Such an action is either incredibly stupid...or unbelievably brave._

_Her voice interrupts his thoughts._

"_Why? This whole time, I just wanted to ask you." She speaks as if ending her previous thought, the words rushing together in a sort of honest confession. _

_His previous thought echoes in his head: that he needs to make her believe, just as he does. _

"_Cause I think she's still out there."_

_She looks at him then, really looks, regarding him with such a genuine, earnest expression it makes his skin crawl. It's as though she can see into his soul, determine the truthfulness of his words, his heart. _

_It's...unsettling._

_He deflects the thought, the conversation after that. Too much touchy-feely crap for one day. Best to leave sentiment out of the equation. Not like he knows a thing about it anyway._

_It's better this way. _

"_Truth is, what else I got to do?"_

It was a good lie, but the truth was so much clearer. He chased a little girl, the way he couldn't chase Merle. He obsessed over finding her, the way he never found him.

It was quickly becoming his legacy, chasing ghosts.

So when the barn opened shortly thereafter and Sophia emerged forth, he snapped. Couldn't take it anymore. He failed – twice – and what's more, he failed someone else, too. Merle and Carol. Left abandoned, alone, because of _him_.

He snapped at her, shared his hurt. And what's worse, she _knew_. She had him figured out long ago. He didn't know exactly when, but in that moment, he knew. And it only caused more hurt, more pain, more hate to take its place. He was cruel. Tried turning her away. Gave her a glimpse of the broken, empty man he was, what a useless waste of space. He didn't deserve gratitude, certainly didn't deserve forgiveness. He deserved pain. And pain he received. The forms changed over the years, but the scars never faded.

In the end, his scars were the only thing he had left to hold onto.

But Carol took him in, him and his fiery words, without missing a beat. It aggravated him to no end, to see her so calm, so collected. She should be like him, angry and forlorn. She should fight back, hit him, give him a new scar. Wound him the way he wounded himself.

But she never did. Just stared at him with those earnest, forgiving eyes, and walked away. But her words resounded in his head even now, haunting him.

"_What're you doin'?" He asks, voice gruff and harsh. He doesn't want her here, not now. Not ever. _

_She whips around, surprise barely evident on her features. He's alarmed her, maybe even scared her, but she erases the expression as quickly as it appears. Puts on a brave face for him. It's a feeble attempt at best, one he'll exploit to his advantage. He'll break her walls. Make sure she never comes back. _

"_Keepin' an eye on you." Her voice holds a wary resolve, as though she knows what's coming. How he'll respond._

_He won't disappoint._

"_Aren't you a peach?" He spits, not bothering to hide the sarcasm lacing his tone._

_She doesn't pause, doesn't even flinch. Just keeps staring at him with that unfaltering expression of hope. It's a face she only wears for him._

"_I'm not gonna let you pull away."_

She saw through him the way no one – not even Merle – ever did.

As much as he yelled at her, cut her down with his heated words, hated the so-called weakness in her eyes – that earnest forgiveness that never seemed to go away – it dawned on him now that he _didn't_ hate her humanity, her good nature. Her...affection.

He missed it.

Such a contorted, perplexing, terrifying feeling – to _admit_. And yet, there it was, at the center of everything.

And here _he_ was, clamoring through the woods with someone he was obligated to love. His family, his brother. And yet, all he could think about was her.

Maybe she was stronger than he ever was. Maybe she had it figured out all along. Maybe for all his fighting skills, all his foolish bravado and big talk, he wasn't the courageous one after all.

He didn't know a damn thing about strength.

But she did.

Not necessarily physically, though she wasn't lacking in that department anymore either. He'd seen her take down walkers by herself on more than one occasion. She was getting better, picking up traits he'd taught her. Surviving, just as he was. It was impressive, really. She'd come a long way from the grief stricken victim he'd met a year ago. Yet another testament to how dedicated she was, how determined. Her resolve never faltered, despite the crippling life events that led her to this point.

He supposed that was what sparked the connection between them. Two damaged and broken people, seeking solace in one another's comfort. Seeking forgiveness and redemption in their own way. Trying to walk the road to healing, but unsure what that path even looked like. They never spoke of it, never confessed, but it was impossible to miss. Not to mention, he'd met Ed. Seen the way he looked at her, witnessed the subtle marks of purple barely visible on her pale skin. Didn't miss the way she'd taken an axe to her husband's face as though every harsh word, every vise grip was poured into those three swings of death.

He knew that feeling. All too well.

What he didn't know was why she bothered with him. How she found the strength to put up with the train wreck he was. It was startling, even now, the way she cared_. _No matter how he tried to drive her away, she persisted, always that fallen angel on his shoulder.

"_I brought you some dinner. You must be starving."_

_She scares him, sneaking up like that. Blindsiding him out of nowhere. He pulls the bed sheet over himself immediately, leaving no part exposed._

_No one has seen his scars._

_But his surprise doesn't end there, not by a long shot. With his back turned, he doesn't notice until it's much too late, until her face is mere inches from his own. His mind suddenly comprehends what's about to happen with an overwhelming clarity; her proximity triggering a war between body and mind. But in the end, it's his body that betrays him, flinching instinctually as she draws ever closer to him. The reaction irks him, and he rebukes himself for showing her more than his scars ever could. _

_She falters, but only for a moment. She perceives his reaction, knows what it means, but still persists, insistent on showing him something he's never received in his life._

_Her lips touch his cheek, warm and soft, and just like that, the moment is over as quickly as it began._

_He realizes a bit belatedly that it's his turn to respond, that he should say something. But he has no words to say, no understanding. He's vulnerable in more ways than one and he doesn't like it. _

"_Watch out, I got stitches."_

_He shuffles slightly, putting some distance between them. Space. _

"_You need to know something."_

_There's a slight pause then, as if she's gathering her thoughts. Her courage. _

"_You did more for my little girl today than her own daddy ever did in his whole life." _

_She speaks the words timidly, as if bracing herself for another outburst. Another closed door, another barrier. He doesn't have the energy or the capability to confirm or deny her affection so he does what he does best: shrugs it off._

_It's easier than acknowledging the truth._

"_I didn't do anything Rick or Shane wouldn't have done."_

_She responds in kind, as if anticipating his response. _

_"I know. You're every bit as good as them. Every bit."_

He couldn't remember a time when someone cared for him so unconditionally. Sure, there was Merle, but that was different. No one voluntarily looked after him, especially not a woman. He was either too terrifying to others or too terrified himself to let anyone get close. Not to mention nobody understood his anti-social nature, his upbringing. He'd never forget those words out in the forest, Merle's ghost taunting him when he'd nearly lost his mind: "Ain't nobody ever gonna care about you except me, little brother."

And he'd been right. Nobody ever did.

Until she came along.

She was his salvation, he realized that now. He doubted he would have been welcomed to the group – or even sought the others out – if it weren't for her influence. And the most ironic part was, he wasn't sure he was even aware of it at the time. Her gentle, yet defiant nature, proving time after time he was worth fighting for.

That he didn't have to be alone.

He knew if there was any redemption for him, for his troublesome past or broken future, it lied with her. And somehow, someway, she helped him find it. Whether she was aware of her part or not, it didn't change the fact. Slowly, gradually, she convinced him that he didn't have to live in his brother's shadow; that he didn't have to follow a ghost any longer.

All because he showed her – however incidentally – the side of himself he thought was buried long ago.

Best mistake he ever made.

Except that wasn't his only one.

"_What do you want us to tell Carol?"_

_He's pleading with him now, trying to get him to see reason. Throwing a name at him – a name he cares about – to even the playing field. Get him to see the other side. _

_He hesitates, but only briefly. It's not that he wants to leave her; it's that he doesn't want to leave him. And this isn't about picking sides._

_It's about family. _

_And that is something she knows about, something she shares with him. Part of the pain both have carried for months now, something they'd finally – or so he'd thought – outgrown._

_So he looks back at Glenn, keeps his voice as neutral as his face as he responds._

"_She'll understand."_

He'd left her. The one person who understood. Even if it was a simple nod in her direction, like it was most days. She always knew, even if the expression never changed.

Instead he was out in the wilderness arguing with a ghost that was. Defying his own nature by hoping and praying the others were alright.

That she was safe.

Merle kept talking – never stopped, really – but he didn't pay it much mind. At least, he hadn't, until Merle mentioned the others.

And by association, her.

"I think you're just trying to lead me back to the road, man. Get me over to that prison."

He didn't turn to face him. Didn't trust his poker face.

"They got shelter. Food. A pot to piss in. Might not be a bad idea."

And of course, there was the fact that he missed them. Her.

He'd never admit it, of course, but that didn't stop the dread from spooling in his gut when his brother predicted the Governor's retaliation. That his "friends" were dead already.

They kept bickering after that, Merle teasing that he'd lost his sense of direction. He hadn't, he knew, but there was no need to rub it in his brother's face.

He'd be proven right soon enough.

But then he heard it. A baby's cry.

Merle brushed it off – like he did everything – but Daryl couldn't let it go. They were close, and if the cries were any indication, they were in trouble, too.

He took off, not even glancing behind to see if Merle had followed. And as Daryl neared the edge of the forest, he saw it: walkers had taken over the Yellow Jacket Creek.

He jumped into action without a second thought, helping the other survivors. He knew Merle wouldn't like it, wouldn't approve, but right now his brother's approval was the last thing on his mind.

It wasn't until Merle began looting the car that everything changed.

For a moment, Daryl was content to let him rummage through the vehicle. Take a few scraps so he would keep his trap shut. But one look at the Mexican standing in front of him, one look at his face, and he knew. The man was scared, terrified, and what's worse, he didn't even understand what they were saying. Merle was literally inside the stranger's car – doing God knows what – while he had to watch, unaware and uninformed.

If someone would have told him that by the end of the day he'd wind up pointing an arrow at his brother's head, he'd have called them crazy. Delusional. And probably some colorful expletives.

But that's exactly what happened.

"Get out of the car."

"I know you're not talking to me, brother."

Then, to the Mexican: "Get in your car and get the hell out of here. Go! Get in your car!"

Merle carefully removed himself, turning around with a deliberate slowness. He stood in silence for a beat, seemingly waiting for Daryl to make a move, before shoving the crossbow from his face like it personally offended him. Daryl let it drop easily and sauntered off, ignoring the heated gaze that followed his steps.

He'd never hear the end of this, but at this point...he didn't care. He was done with this.

Done with him.

So they argued. Jabbed insults at each other. Daryl defended his group, his friends, and Merle defended his stump of an arm. And just when it couldn't become any more clearer what an arrogant, selfish prick his brother was, what a haughty, pompous bastard, Daryl turned his back, once and for all. The moment his back was turned he felt Merle reach out, clutching angrily to his shirt. The shift in momentum caught Daryl off guard, sent him tumbling down, knees roughly colliding with the earth. Too late, he heard the thin, frayed material rip under Merle's iron grasp. Too late he felt the hot summer air prickle his skin, sending a shiver down his spine that had nothing to do with the heat. Too late, he realized.

It wasn't just his shirt that was tattered.

Merle appeared taken aback, at a loss for words. Which was a first, for him.

"I–I didn't know he was..."

There was raw surprise in his voice, and Daryl couldn't hide the anguish from filling his own tone.

"Yeah, he did. He did the same to you. That's why you left first."

Daryl busied himself with collecting his now discarded arrows, thankful for the menial task. Busied hands helped distract from the awkward, honest confession that was decades too late.

"I had to, man. I would have killed him otherwise."

Ignoring the pang of hurt threatening to undo his walls, Daryl stood and sauntered away from his brother for the second time that afternoon.

"Where you going?"

There was desperation in his brother's voice, but Daryl couldn't bring himself to empathize with the man he once knew. He'd meant his earlier remarks, that Merle deserved what he got, that he asked for it. After all this time, the world going to hell, Merle was the same person he'd always been, only looking out for himself. And while Daryl understood what it meant to be a loner, understood the protection isolation had to offer, he knew something else, too. That solitude wasn't a safe haven like he once perceived. That he didn't need to pillage, or steal, or run away any longer. That he was _understood. _Even appreciated, in some small way. That he'd been forgiven, long before he ever forgave himself.

That he'd been cared about, long before he cared about her.

He turned then, for one last exchange. One last goodbye. The words flowed all on their own, as he finally – _finally – _acknowledged the truth that had been staring him in the face for so long.

"Back where I belong."

"_What do you want?"_

_She peers at him then, firelight illuminating her delicate features. She looks at him the same way she has for months now: as though he holds all the answers at his fingertips. Like she depends on him, but for more than just survival. For healing, for hope. _

_For life._

"_A man with honor."_

It never occurred to him until now that she was talking about him.


End file.
